


Stonewall

by pennydrdful



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, M/M, Wincest if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-20
Updated: 2014-01-20
Packaged: 2018-01-09 08:49:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1143973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pennydrdful/pseuds/pennydrdful
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean does what he can to help when Sam keeps seeing Lucifer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stonewall

Dean peers through the barrel of his Colt 45. No dust, no residue, just a clean, unbroken spiral. Satisfied, he sets aside the rod and oiled patch. He starts reassembling it, hands moving automatically through muscle memory drilled in by a couple decades of repetition. But his attention fixes across the room. Out of the corner of his eyes, he watches Sam.

His brother sits at the small table of their room, laptop and a notepad in front of him. He's gone rigid. The heels of his hands rest on the table, fingers frozen in mid-air, poised to resume typing. But he doesn't. Slowly, those big hands curl into white-knuckled fists.

Dean's eyes flicker up to Sam's face. His eyes are glued, unseeing on the laptop screen. Something in Dean's stomach does a sickening flip. Sam's wearing a look on his face that Dean's pretty sure he'd never really seen on his brother until recently. But it's one he's become intimately familiar with over the last couple of weeks. It's fast becoming one of his least favorite of Sam's expressions, and he'd seen more than a few that he'd spill blood to never see again. This is the one Sam wears when he's pretending he can't see the devil sitting right beside him. When he's trying to stonewall the words pouring into his ears. But Dean knows the kinds of things angels like to say. Even when you ignore them. Somehow they slip right in, through the gaps of your ribs, and start scratching away inside you. 

Dean looks back down at the gun in his hands and racks it once. The final pull for all the pieces to click back where they belong. Sam startles at the noise. His fingers uncurl with a jerk. Dean shoves the pistol in the back of his jeans and faces his brother. "Let's break for lunch."

Sam clears his throat. Gaze locked on the screen. "Um, yeah. Sure."

Dean crosses the room, stands at his shoulder, and pretends to care about the research on the computer. "Grab some hotdogs and beers. Go park by that lake we saw off of 15?"

Sam's breath escapes in a whoosh. He finally looks away from the screen, and up at Dean. A small amount of surprise and question on his face. But all he says is, "Sure."

"Great." Dean claps Sam's shoulder and moves off, grabbing his coat. 

Sam breathes in the mixed scents of gun oil and leather. His eyes trace over Dean's slightly popped collar, down his arm, to the clink of the Impala's keys in his hand. The world slots back together, and he can move again. He shuts the computer and climbs to his feet. "Wait. I hate hot dogs." 

"Shaddup."


End file.
